The Kept Woman
by CaliforniaStop
Summary: In which Treavor Pendleton learns the fate of Lady Boyle.
1. Chapter 1

_In which Waverly Boyle asks to see Treavor Pendleton._

_Also published on my Tumblr and Ao3 accounts._

* * *

Brisby's country estate was larger than Treavor Pendleton remembered. And that tall iron fence circling the enormous home like a dark halo was new; the earth around the thick posts was freshly turned. As Treavor's carriage ground to a halt, Brisby sauntered down from the door and the two lords met at the gate. Treavor noted the thick white bandage around Brisby's hand.

"Hello, Timothy," Pendleton said with a curt, polite smile. "What happened to your hand?"

"Hello, Treavor," Brisby returned. "Ah. Just an accident. Slip of the knife at dinner." He quickly licked his lips. "I'm rather surprised you accepted her invitation."

"I'm rather surprised you _told_ me she'd asked to see me."

"Yes, well…" Brisby shrugged and shifted on his feet. At his waist, a large cluster of keys jingled. "I'd like to make her happy," he finished lamely. "Come on, then."

Brisby's home had two front doors, one ornate with delicate lattice work and stained glass, and the other heavy and thick, more suited to Dunwall Tower or Coldridge Prison than an estate home. Brisby locked both once the lords were inside. "I'm terribly sorry about the state of things," he said apologetically.

Treavor's eyes roved over the unpolished silver tarnishing in the cabinets, the dusty harpsichord, the grimy windows. The air inside the home was stale and cold. Only a few lamps were lit.

"I, ah, had to get rid of a lot of the staff. You know, fewer eyes, fewer people talking…" Brisby muttered.

"I understand," Treavor said, though he didn't. "Where is she?"

"Upstairs."

Brisby led Treavor up several flights of stairs, with their unpolished banisters and unkempt runners. As they climbed, Brisby muttered incessantly about her – how she was taking well to her new home, how she enjoyed walks outside, how he had recently bought her this new dress or that new cameo. Treavor said nothing; he didn't quite trust himself to speak.

"She likes the view from up here," Brisby said with a proud little smile as they ascended the final staircase.

"What? From the _attic_?" Treavor replied incredulously.

"Well, of course I've made it into a bedroom for her – really, quite spacious and lovely." Brisby shrugged. "She's just… safer up here."

Brisby led Treavor along the rough floorboards and protruding beams to a heavy, thick door that matched the one downstairs. From the keys at his waist, Brisby selected one and set to work unlocking the door. Behind it was a second door, decidedly less ominous than the first.

Treavor made a noise deep in his throat, but said nothing.

Brisby knocked on the second door and then unlocked it.

Almost immediately, bright daylight washed out of the makeshift bedroom and over the two lords. Brisby smiled; Treavor winced and narrowed his eyes.

"Darling, he's here," Brisby announced gleefully.

Treavor followed Brisby into the bedroom. There were three tall windows through which the warm daylight flooded; Treavor noted the delicate mesh screens bolted to the inside of the windows, casting strange patterns on the polished floorboards. It _was_ a rather lovely and incredibly spacious room: there was the large four-poster bed with delicate pastel-colored drapes and plush cushions; there was a love seat, embroidered in the finest brocade and silk; there was the wardrobe, expertly carved from pale wood, and the full-length mirror adorned with gold filigree; and there was the table where she sat, her back rigid against the chair. She faced away from the two lords, towards the windows. At her feet was an untouched tray of food. Treavor noticed three other trays – equally untouched, equally laden with food – on the other side of the room.

Brisby delicately cleared his throat. "My dear?" he questioned softly, and he padded over to her. He bent to kiss her cheek and she swiftly slapped him across the ear. Brisby mumbled something incoherent and rubbed gently at his face. "She's – ah – well, she can be a handful," he said over his shoulder. He turned to her once more. "My dear, I want to make you happy but _you_ have to _want_ me to make you happy. Do you understand?"

She said nothing.

"That's why I brought Lord Pendleton to see you. To make you happy. Shall I bring up some tea things?"

"Piss off," she growled.

Brisby offered Treavor an apologetic smile.

"I'm sure it will be fine, Timothy," Treavor said with a tart sniff.

"I'll – ah – I'll leave you to it then. If you need something… well, I'll drop in every now and again to see how you are."

Treavor waited until Brisby was gone – he felt his heart twitch with each _clunk_ of the locks as Brisby sealed them inside the attic – and then he swaggered over to her. "Hello, Waverly," he said.

She said nothing, which he took as an invitation to sit. He perched himself on the chair opposite her, crossed his ankle over his knee, and then regarded Waverly Boyle in the bright daylight. She was pale and had grown thin – refusing to eat did that to a person. Her blonde hair, swept off her face in a stylish twist, lacked a certain lustre. Her lips were drawn into a thin line, her grey eyes as hard and cold as stone. She was dressed in pale silk, a beautiful long-sleeved dress that Treavor was certain Brisby had chosen for her.

Though she was a captive – and had been for several days now – she still exuded that distinct coldness that had always repulsed and attracted Treavor. Her jaw was set, her breathing quick and measured. There was hatred in the creases around her eyes and the tightness of her mouth and the flaring of her nostrils. Treavor smirked; that was not the first time she had attacked Brisby. The snake that lurked beneath her beautiful exterior was uncoiled, hissing and spitting from within its cage.

"Waverly?" Treavor questioned slowly.

"Yes, Treavor?" Her voice was hoarse and soft. For the first time since he had come to see her, she looked at him. Her eyes shone with unshed tears.

He licked his lips and tilted his head. "How are you?"

Waverly let loose a short, bitter bark of laughter. She blinked away her tears. "_That's_ what you've got to say to me? 'How are you?'" she spat.

Treavor clenched his jaw. "_You_ asked me here, Waverly. I didn't expect that I would have to work to _make_ you talk," he retorted icily.

"I'm surprised that you came. After all…"

"After all you've done to me?" Treavor offered with a smirk. It quickly faded from his lips. "Well… I felt it was my duty to see you." _I could never turn down a request from you_, he thought with a strange twist in his heart.

Waverly nodded. She brushed an imaginary speck of dirt from her dress. "How are my sisters?"

"Coping," Treavor replied after a hesitant pause. "They're holding out hope that you'll be found."

"I'm too far out of the city. No one will ever find me here." Waverly sniffed sharply and pursed her lips. "This must be how you feel, with your brothers gone." She shook her head. "What a sad pair we are, hmm?"

Treavor's hands felt idle. He lit himself a cigarette. "Does he… treat you well?"

Waverly did not reply. She closed her eyes and then stood and paced to one of the windows. She pressed her hand to the mesh screen. "This is all the exercise I get now," she said flatly. "The last time he took me out, I ran."

He was astounded to hear a lack of self-pity in her tone. There was only anger, and confusion.

She paced back to the table and sat.

"You didn't answer my question, Waverly."

She merely arched an eyebrow.

"Does he treat you well?" Treavor repeated, a frown creasing his brow.

"If you're asking if he beats me or rapes me, the answer is no," she replied sharply.

Treavor felt his shoulders slump in something resembling relief. "Well, I suppose that's something." He inhaled slowly on his cigarette and blew two streams of smoke through his nostrils. "What happened to his hand?" he asked.

"I stabbed him during dinner. He got close enough and I lashed out with my knife. I just missed his stomach but I pierced him right through his palm," Waverly said with a defiant tip of her chin. "Needless to say, we don't eat together anymore."

Treavor turned his eyes upon the untouched trays of food. "You're not eating by yourself, it seems."

"I'm afraid to eat. I'm sure he's putting things in my food."

"You're only going to grow weaker…" Treavor trailed off. He offered her a cigarette, which she accepted with a wan smile. As he reached across with his lighter, her cold hand grazed his wrist and he felt his skin tingle.

"Waverly," he breathed, if only to hear her name come from his lips. He watched as she puffed on the cigarette, blowing lazy columns of smoke from her mouth. "Why did you ask for me?"

"I don't want to be here anymore, Treavor," she answered, her voice cracking. "I don't _belong_ here." She pressed a hand over her eyes as though to hide her crying. Her thin shoulders shook. "I don't know _why_ I'm here."

"Because of Burrows."

"But why _him_?! Why _Brisby_?"

"He… he assured us that you would not be a problem anymore. It was preferable to killing you."

"So I was made to be a prisoner instead."

"How could we have known what he would do to you?" Treavor retorted sharply. "I, for one, didn't want to see you _killed_ because you're screwing the Lord Regent!" Almost immediately, he regretted the anger in his tone. He settled back against the chair and sighed. "We _had_ to do it, Waverly."

"So I'm being punished."

"You were financing the Lord Regent's armies."

"So take my money away! Kick me out of my home!" Waverly cried. "_Anything_ would have been better than this – even death."

"Don't say that."

"It's true." She sighed. She gestured lazily to the windows. "That's why he put those screens up. So I don't jump."

"Waverly..!"

"I'm not going to jump, Treavor," she said with a roll of her eyes.

He let out a small sigh of relief and closed his eyes. His hands were trembling and he willed himself to relax.

"He's told me all about you, Treavor. About your little _conspiracy_." Waverly spat out the word like it was a bad taste in your mouth. She crushed out her cigarette underfoot and sighed. "Is it true? Do you have the heir?"

"Yes."

"You must tell Hiram–"

"_No_, Waverly. The Lord Regent is corrupt. He _ordered _the murder of the Empress."

"_Lies_!" she cried, pushing herself back from the table. Her eyes were wild; her pulse twitched in her throat. "I refuse to believe it!"

"Come now, Waverly, are you really that blind?" Treavor asked, exasperation bleeding into his tone. He just wanted her to _understand_.

She looked away from him. Her profile was quite fetching in the daylight and Treavor found his gaze travelling from the delicate curve of her chin, over her lips, along the end of her nose, to her smooth forehead. There were curly wisps of hair at her temple and Treavor resisted the urge to reach out and brush them back from her face.

"Has Hiram said anything?" she asked in a voice so soft that he wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly.

"About you?"

"Yes."

"No," he admitted. "Well, nothing publically. Nothing in Parliament. I expect it's a – ah – private matter."

"He did warn me, you know. He even put that City Watch detail around the estate. I had guards escorting me everywhere I went." She closed her eyes for a moment. "He told me that being with him would be… dangerous. But he told me he would protect me."

"Corvo is better than those City Watch dogs," Treavor replied with a sharp arch of his eyebrow.

"Corvo," she echoed wonderingly. "I always did like the Lord Protector. So did Esma." She snorted bitterly. "They're useless without me. They haven't the first _clue_ about what it means to be a Boyle."

"They'll manage well enough."

Waverly scowled. "That sounds as though you're implying I'm going to be here – _forever_."

"Well – what do you _want_ me to say?" Treavor retorted sharply.

Waverly paced to the window once more and sighed.

"Why did you ask for me, Waverly?" Treavor snapped. "I've taken time out of my day – time I could be putting to better use in _Parliament_ – to see you and all I get is… is _nothing_!"

She was silent for a moment. Her hand brushed against the metal screen on the window. When she spoke, she did not look at him: "Treavor, I want – I _need_ – you to help me. You _have_ to get me out of here."

He said nothing; his jaw clenched.

Waverly turned to him from the window and there were tears in her eyes; she hastily blinked them away. "You must tell the City Watch where I am. Or my sisters. _They'll _send the Watch after Brisby. You don't even have to implicate yourself; just send them an anonymous note." There was great imploring in her expression, and it made his heart ache. "What's been done to me is _wrong_, Treavor, don't you see? But I'm willing to forgive. I _am_. I will never speak of this again once I am free."

"The _Lord Regent_–"

"Has done nothing wrong! I love him, Treavor. I _know_ he would not have done what you all say he's done."

Rage bubbled up in Treavor's chest, making his lips peel back from his teeth. A hot blush rose in his cheeks and he dropped his unfinished cigarette. "_I _loved you," he hissed. "Don't you _remember_? I loved you at _thirteen_. And where did that get me? _Hmm_? You _broke my heart_. You made a _fool_ out of me. You screwed around with Morgan. Or Custis. Or maybe both."

He stood then, suddenly feeling the need to move. He marched over to her and grabbed her elbow; he relished the small twitch of her body as she flinched. "You are _incapable_ of love, dammit. I learned that the hard way. So don't you dare appeal to me with that _shit_ about you and Burrows!"

Waverly did not wrench out of his grasp. She simply held his enraged gaze, her breathing sharp and shallow. Then she smiled, a cruel little smile that was like a knife in Treavor's ribcage. "Is that what it will take for you to help me, Treavor? Do you want me? Do you want me to be _yours_?" she questioned softly, mockery and bitterness lacing her words. "Do you want me to _fuck_ you and tell you I _love_ you?"

His blush darkened and his grip on her arm tightened. "Stop it," he hissed.

Waverly continued, the cruel little smile never leaving her lips: "I'm sure I could explain it well to Hiram. I could tell him that I owe you a debt. He'd understand. In fact, he'd be grateful that you helped me. He would overlook our little affair for as long as it lasts."

"I said, _stop it_!" Treavor snarled. With as much fury and strength as he could muster, he pushed her away. Every nerve in his body was enflamed and his limbs were trembling. He scrubbed his cheek with his hand and turned away from her. "I don't want _any_ of that."

"You're lying, Treavor."

"I don't want Hiram Burrows' hand-me-downs," he spat venomously.

Waverly tilted her head. "Then what? What do you want? Money? After what your brothers did to the family fortune, I'm sure I could offer you something enticing. Custis wanted to buy that land from me – rich with rare and exquisite crystals. I'll _give_ it to you and you can build up your wealth again."

Treavor thinned his lips. He wanted to help Waverly – more than he liked to admit – but Brisby was a friend. More importantly, he was a friend to the Loyalists. If Treavor called in the City Watch, Brisby would talk and then their plans – months and months in the making – would be undone.

"I don't want anything from you," he said hoarsely.

"No, please. Name your price. I assure you, I will pay it."

"I don't want _anything_ from you," he repeated fiercely. "But Waverly you don't understand…" He sighed wearily. "Brisby still has his, ah, uses. I can't ignore them. Once Burrows is taken care of then I _promise_ I will get you out of here."

"What… what are you going to do to him?"

Treavor did not reply.

"Please, Treavor," she cried, "just call the Watch guards! They'll kill Brisby and I can _leave_. I can return to my _family_!"

His eyes darted to the side, away from hers; he couldn't bear the pain in her face. "I'm sorry, Waverly. I can't. Not yet."

Her breath hitched in her throat. "Treavor," she whimpered, "_please_." She went to him and grabbed his hand in a gesture of complete and utter begging. "_Please_," she repeated, more desperately than before.

Despite himself, Treavor squeezed her fingers and rubbed his thumb over the back of her smooth, cold hand. "You only have to do this for a few more days, Waverly. A few more days. Then I _promise_ I will bring in the City Watch."

"I _can't_," she breathed. "I can't do this anymore. Brisby is growing… desperate. Frustrated. _With me_. I've put him off for as long as I can but–"

"Don't," Treavor rasped, shaking his head. "I don't want to hear it."

The sound of the doors being unlocked drew their attention. Waverly looked over Treavor's shoulder, her eyes burning with a stunning mixture of fear and hatred.

"Please," she whispered. "_Please_."

"Waverly…" he said softly, but Brisby interrupted them:

"Hello?" he called from the doorway. He saw Waverly, her hand clasped in Treavor's, and his face hardened. "I think it's time for you to leave, Treavor," he said coldly.

Waverly gave Treavor's hand a final desperate squeeze and, with great reluctance, he pulled away from her.

The warmth and pressure of her hand lingered on his skin as Brisby escorted him out (he was quick to lock Waverly inside the attic and checked that the doors were, in fact, sealed). Nothing was said between the two lords as they descended from the attic.

At the front door, Brisby said frostily, "I think it's best you don't come around here anymore, Treavor. If she asks for you… I'll just say you're busy."

Treavor said nothing. There was a great deflating feeling inside his chest, threatening to crumple him from the inside-out. He offered Brisby a limp smile and then marched to the waiting carriage. As it pulled away from the country estate, he told the driver that they would be making a stop at Boyle Manor. Treavor decided to give himself the length of the ride to the Estate District to formulate just what he would tell Lydia and Esma Boyle – of course he couldn't tell them _everything_, but they deserved to know that their sister was alive, at least.

The pain and desperation on Waverly's face was an indelible burn in Treavor's mind (and his heart). To see her so frightened and to see her _pleading_ with him was terrible. Under normal circumstances, he might have taken great delight in watching Waverly Boyle – she of the spine of steel and the veins of ice – begging for his help. In fact, he was _certain_ that he would have committed her pale, pained face to memory, such that he could call on it later when he was feeling blue. But these were not normal circumstances.

_Only a few more days_, he told himself, though he couldn't help but think that Waverly would not last that long. And that thought, more than anything, frightened him.


	2. Chapter 2

_In which Treavor Pendleton (almost) keeps a promise._

* * *

Treavor Pendleton supposed it was strange that, as he was dying, his thoughts were on Waverly Boyle and not on the frightening coldness in his lower body or the blood that had soaked right through his shirt and waistcoat or the fact that Martin and his loyal band of Overseers were ever closer to gaining entry to the gatehouse. No, all of it didn't matter – not _really_ – because Waverly was still locked inside Brisby's attic and Treavor realized with a slow, numb awareness that he would never be able to have her freed. He would never see her again.

He coughed, spluttered wetly, and felt something warm on his lip. _Blood._ A lot of blood. He had always been an easy bleeder.

A stronger man than Treavor might have grown a pair of balls, opened his shirt, and reached into the wound to extract the bullet. That might do something to slow his death. But Treavor was not a strong man and he feared what he might see if he opened his shirt. He couldn't bear the thought of slipping his fingers past the ragged flesh and into the warmth of his own mortality. He _couldn't_.

Outside, Martin was calling to his men. There had been several bad clashes earlier in the day and the ranks of Treavor's Watch guards were wearing thin. Now, night had fallen and the men had been recalled to resupply and rest. Treavor was alone in what remained of his office. His traveling trunks were stacked against a wall; there was his desk strewn with papers. Through the gaping hole in the wall, the wind and rain howled.

_How fitting_, he thought.

He limped over to the desk and fumbled for a clean sheet of paper. The movement, though small, was enough to send his heartbeat rising in his throat and blood rushing in his ears. He leant across for a pen and almost blacked out with the strain. Gasping, sweating, shaking, he hunched over the desk; blood dripped from his shirtfront onto the paper but he didn't care.

Time was running out – for him and the other Loyalists. Corvo was alive. Everybody knew it; that's when the panic had started, panic that quickly gave way to fighting and then chaos. And, if the Lord Protector's past actions were anything to go by, he was on his way to Kingsparrow Island to exact some very cold, very violent revenge.

Truth be told, Treavor didn't blame him; in fact, he rather welcomed Corvo's sharp blade. At least it would end the madness. But not before Lord Pendleton tried his hand at some form of redemption.

His vision was beginning to blur. He blinked and raised the pen against the paper. He scratched out a 'W' – wobbly and thin – and then drew a shuddering gasp. He _needed_to finish the note.

He trembled and coughed. His hand, usually neat and meticulous, was a jagged, panicked scrawl. Flecks of blood peppered the paper; he accidentally smeared some of the ink. Each drag of the pen on the page was painfully slow and vibrated inside his hand. He was beginning to grow lightheaded and had to think _very hard_ about the next letter to be etched out.

There. The note was done. With watering eyes, Treavor read:

_Waverly Boyle is alive. Kept inside Timothy Brisby's country home. Save her._

His knees were beginning to buckle with the strain of standing upright. Treavor signed the note with a flourish – _Lord Treavor Pendleton_ – in the hopes that, maybe, Waverly would know that he _had_ kept his promise.

With shaking hands, he folded the note away in the inner pocket of his coat. When they searched his body, they would be sure to find it. Yes, they would find the note and the Watch would be sent to Brisby's home and they would find Waverly Boyle – thin and frightened and pale but _alive_ – and they would tell her that Lord Pendleton had alerted them to her whereabouts and then she would ask where he was and they would say–

"Pendleton!"

It was Martin, calling from across the courtyard.

Treavor made the great mistake of limping towards the hole in the wall. Martin shot at him from the guardhouse but the bullet lodged itself somewhere in the ceiling.

"Is that the best you can do, Martin? You disappoint me!" Treavor screamed, feeling his entire body throb with each syllable. He laughed, a sharp brittle laugh that echoed across the courtyard.

Martin returned fire with some choice insults –_ worthless piece of_ _inbred shit_, as if Treavor hadn't already heard that one before – and loosed another (inaccurate) shot and then retreated. Possibly to contemplate a new plan of attack.

Treavor's lungs seemed to crumple inside his chest. He blindly sought the wall, pressed his back against it, and slumped to the floor. He dared to touch the wound in his stomach; his fingers came away red, sticky, saturated. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back.

There was a moment of peace inside the gatehouse and Treavor recalled every memory of Waverly Boyle that he could, from kind, lovely Waverly aged thirteen to frightened, desperate Waverly inside Brisby's attic and everything in between. He let out a sigh and something inside him squelched.

He had promised to be back in a few days but that was _more_ than a few days ago. He didn't dare think about whether or not Waverly was still alive – whether or not Brisby had hurt her in a fit of rage, whether or not she was frightened and scared and crying and desperately pulling at the screens on her windows so that she could throw herself to the ground, several stories below, because _he had not saved her like he had promised._..

Ren appeared at the top of the staircase, drawn to Treavor by the sound of Martin's gunshots no doubt.

"My lord, are you alright?"

Treavor spluttered weakly in a poor imitation of a laugh. "No, Ren. I'm dying," he replied weakly. He held up a bloodied hand in demonstration.

"Don't say that, my lord," Ren said, but there was resignation in his voice.

Treavor drew a ragged breath. "First my brothers, now me." He clenched his jaw as a wave of nausea washed over him. "It's my own fault." He eyed Ren and pressed his hand tightly over his wound. There was no need to appear weak to his men; no, he needed to remain stoic – to the end – even though ever fibre in his body cried out for him to curl up on his side and weep. "You've been a decent captain. A little short on the draw yesterday, I have to say…" _Letting that prick Martin get a clean shot at me_. "But a decent captain nonetheless."

"Yes, my lord." Ren inclined his head. "Sorry, my lord."

Ren turned to go when a gruesome arc of blood and brain matter spurted from the back of his head and he slumped to the ground, twitching lightly. In his forehead was a small, dark hole that gently oozed blood. Lodged in the wall where Ren's head had been seconds earlier was a crossbow bolt.

_He's here_, Treavor thought, too weak to panic. _I'm sure he's killed Martin – that's why there was no alarm – and now I'm next_.

Ren's pistol was still strapped to his chest but Treavor didn't have the strength to drag himself to the dead captain and retrieve it. What good would it do anyway? Corvo was marked by black magic; it would take more than a bullet to stop him.

As if drawn to Treavor by mere thought, the Lord Protector flashed into existence. The air crackled with magic in his wake. His dark coat was soaked with rain – and blood. In one hand, he had his crossbow; in the other, the infamous blade that had ended countless lives.

Treavor tried not to flinch at the mask, the mask that had been the subject of more than one nightmare. He was determined _not_ to go out in a snivelling, begging heap – not like his brothers had (Morgan, banging on the walls of the steam room like a trapped animal, and Custis, pleading for his life – or so Corvo had said). He would go out like a _Pendleton_ dammit.

"Corvo," he said, his lips curling with a smirk, "I knew you would get here." He drew breath to speak again and his body was wracked by a violent coughing fit. He tasted bitter copper in his mouth and swallowed down a mixture of blood and saliva. "Well," he drawled, "you're _too late_. I'm already dying – _without_ your help."

It was damn unnerving, not being able to see the Lord Protector's face, even with his rapidly darkening vision. Treavor gasped for air and felt something gush from the wound – more blood. Something had ruptured, maybe. He half-regretted not making some attempt to remove the bullet.

Corvo stepped closer, looming over Lord Pendleton. His head tilted, ever so slightly.

"What could I offer you anyway?" He bared his teeth in a snarl. "You want money? Well, I'm _broke_." A sudden jolt of venom surged through him then and he chuckled. "Women maybe? Everybody knows you were screwing the Empress."

Corvo took another step forward, unfolding his blade as he did so.

Treavor's eyelids fluttered shut. Another wave of nausea washed over him, making him shiver. He weakly raised a hand. "Before you end it, Corvo – please, _listen_."

At that, Corvo stilled.

Treavor's hand, limp and cold, fumbled at the inner pocket of his coat. His fingers closed around the note and a strangled whimper escaped him.

_So much for going out like a Pendleton_.

"Corvo." It was getting harder to talk. The cold numbness was beginning to spread from his lower body to his torso. His pulse, weak and shallow, twitched in his throat. "This note." His hand fell away from his coat and he didn't have the strength to lift it again.

Corvo understood, though. The Lord Protector knelt and, silently, slipped his hand into Treavor's coat. He expertly withdrew the note and pulled his hand away but Treavor lashed out and seized his wrist with a surprisingly strong grip.

"Save her, Corvo." His voice was now just a whisper. He couldn't feel his limbs. "I know you can do it. I _promised_ her."

Corvo nodded, imperceptibly. He stank of the sea and death.

Treavor nodded and he closed his eyes. There was a wonderful euphoric sensation rising in him. Relief, perhaps. "Good," he breathed. He felt Corvo shift away, heard him stand, and then there was nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

_In which Corvo Attano honors Pendleton's dying request._

* * *

Waverly Boyle hated herself.

She hated the way she was curled up on her side, weeping, with a trembling fist pressed against her lips.

She hated how quickly her cold loathing had faded, giving rise to genuine fear about Brisby.

Most of all, though, she hated how she had devoted some space in her heart – the heart that many swore did not exist and that she herself sometimes refused to acknowledge – to the hope that Treavor Pendleton would come for her.

Because he hadn't.

She didn't know how much time had passed since he had visited her. Brisby had boarded up her windows – stealing away her only real sense of time, stealing away the only connection she had with the outside world, stealing away the light and sound and the view – as punishment for…

For _what_, exactly? Her only crime had been being courted by Hiram Burrows. She was only guilty of finding his affections charming. _She_ hadn't killed anyone. _She_ wasn't the one who had killed the Empress. And yet, the way she was being punished, she might as well have been the one holding the blade.

A sob escaped her, shaky and weak, and she quickly clamped a hand over her lips. She didn't need to hear how pathetic she was. She didn't need to hear the way her voice broke, the wet ragged draw of breath as she was wracked by an overwhelming urge to _beg_ Brisby for… for respite or mercy or _something_.

But she knew she wasn't going to get anything of the sort from him.

Something inside Brisby had broken the day that Pendleton had come to see her. When he had found her – leaning desperately into Treavor, her hand a tight clamp over his, her eyes shining with tears – she had seen it in her captor's eyes and, despite herself, she was _scared_.

After Treavor's carriage had pulled away (Waverly had listened to the wheels carrying away her only chance of salvation) Brisby returned to the attic. He had screamed at her, his face red, a vein pulsing in his temple. _Screamed_ at her for an explanation.

_I saved you from being murdered! I was the one who begged Corvo to spare you! Is this how you repay me? By throwing yourself at _Pendleton_? I love you! I've always loved you! I deserve more from you!_

He hadn't hit her; he had only grabbed her, painfully so. The bruises were _still_ on her arms. Brisby had taken exactly what he wanted from her that afternoon.

Waverly had tried to fight him off, and remembered being so very _proud_ of the way she had kicked and scratched and hissed and lashed out. It was a fight worthy of a feral alley cat. She had put every desperate instinct for survival and self-preservation into the motion of her limbs, the way her body hunched away from Brisby, the speed with which she darted around the room, dodging his grasping hands, throwing trays and cushions and lamps and music boxes and anything else she could grab…

But Brisby was determined. He was determined to break her, to make her his, to weed out any hope still left inside her that Treavor Pendleton was going to rescue her.

Waverly had screamed throughout the incident (and when Brisby tried to silence her with a hand over her mouth, she had bitten him hard enough to break the skin) and she still screamed when he shuddered on top of her, whispering soothing things and trying to kiss her, and she continued to scream when he slunk away, buttoning up his trousers and locking her in the attic once more.

The second time Brisby visited her, she was weak and exhausted. She wouldn't sleep, she had promised herself, until Pendleton's carriage rocked up the driveway and he came to take her away from the attic. She wouldn't eat, she had vowed, until she could eat in her own home, with her sisters.

And her protest had gone on for several days, leaving her faint and whimpering when Brisby took her hands and pulled her close. The best she could do was writhe and twist and curse as he laid her on the bed and settled on top of her.

_I love you, Waverly. I've _always_ loved you. More than Pendleton! He_ made_ you a target of the Loyalists. He_ could_ have saved you, but he _didn't_. He _wanted_ Corvo to kill you. Oh Waverly, let me show you how much I love you. I want you to love me too but you have to _want_ it, my darling. I'm just trying to get you to understand. This is your life now. I saved you; you should be grateful! I know you are – you just don't know how to show me. _

Now, laying on the bed and curled up on her side, she mustered all her strength and lifted her arm. She examined the delicate skin of her wrist, the faint band of creases, the pale blue veins snaking along the length of her arm. For a moment, she considered smashing the ornate mirror that Brisby had given her, picking up a sharp shard of polished glass, and–

A strangled cry escaped her and she curled in on herself.

Treavor wasn't coming. He had promised, but he _wasn't_. Now, she had only herself to rely on and her options were rapidly narrowing. Brisby was slowly – methodically – breaking her. Her resolve was fading. She often found herself wondering just how long she would last without food, without water, without sleep.

She wasn't strong enough to actually kill herself, but she could simply let go…

She just wished she could get a message to Lydia and Esma first, explaining _why_ she had grown so weak, why she had lost hope, why she had decided that the only option was to give up – because she wasn't about to _give in_ to Brisby.

No, she'd rather die than accept him. She'd rather die than accept that _this_ was how she was going to live out the rest of her life – a prisoner, a captive, a slave.

Suddenly, there was shouting coming from just outside her room. It was loud, loud enough to carry through the two doors that Brisby had her trapped behind. Shouting, swearing.

Waverly propped herself up on her elbow, her entire body trembling with the effort of movement. She blinked. Her throat grew tight. Was Brisby angry? If he was, no doubt he'd be coming to visit her a third time, to vent his frustrations on her body and then continue to lie to her about his _love_–

A single gunshot rang out and she flinched. Her heart began to race, sharp and shallow in her chest. Tears came unbidden to her eyes.

There were more shouts – not angry, just authoritative.

She wanted to speak, to call out, but her voice was raw from disuse. She pushed herself up into a sitting position and listened, slightly terrified, as someone opened the locks. The click of the first door opening made her twitch; when the second door opened, she braced herself.

Corvo Attano stood in the open doorway, resplendent and fierce in the uniform of the Lord Protector. He had obviously been reinstated in his former position, which meant that Lady Emily Kaldwin was on the throne, which meant that…

_Hiram was gone_.

Waverly shuddered and bit back a sob.

"Lady Boyle?" Corvo asked, his voice low and rough, like the growl of a dog.

She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't. She nodded.

"We've come to take you home. Your sisters are downstairs in a waiting carriage."

She fell from the bed, shaking and crying, and didn't have the strength to pick herself up. She heard Corvo step across to her and he effortlessly scooped her into his arms. She caught sight of his face – hard, dark, haunted – and she curled her hand into the sleeve of his jacket.

"How did you know?" she rasped weakly.

Corvo said nothing. He carried her from the attic, past a squad of City Watch guards. The stench of gunpowder and blood was thick in the air and Waverly only just caught sight of Brisby's body – sprawled on the floor, bright red blood oozing from the gunshot wound in his chest, grey, staring with glassy eyes – before she was swept down the stairs.

_Away from Brisby. Away from the attic. _

Waverly looked up at Corvo's face again. This was the man who had wanted to kill her. The man who had gotten rid of Hiram. The man who had razed an entire city in the pursuit of vengeance. _The man who had delivered her to Brisby_. She clenched her jaw. "How did you know where to find me?" she asked, her voice a little firmer than before.

Again, Corvo said nothing.

He carried her out of the estate home that had been her prison for she didn't know how long. She winced and buried her face in his chest when the harsh rays of daylight washed over her. Being in the dark for so long, she wasn't ready for the sensations of being outside. The air was fresh. She could hear birds chirping. She felt herself grow faint with relief.

And then she heard her sisters calling for her.

"P-put me down," she demanded, thrashing weakly in Corvo's arms. "I said, _put me down!_"

He obliged, gingerly setting her on the gravel driveway.

Esma and Lydia, solemn in black, were at the gate. They were hysterical, sobbing and waving and screaming. Waverly cried out and tried to run towards them but she was still too weak. She fell to her knees. Corvo was at her side in an instant, lifted her in his arms again, and ferried her to the waiting carriage.

Her sisters crowded around her, plucked her from Corvo's arms, and gently guided her to the carriage.

"_Waverly_! Oh Outsider, Waverly you're _alive!_"

"We were praying – we'd made enquiries – we didn't know _what_ had happened!"

"Are you alright, darling? Please, speak to us!"

"You look _terrible_! Oh, we'll get a doctor in right away! We'll take you away from this awful place and we'll go _home_ and everything will be as it was."

Waverly squeezed her eyes shut as more tears threatened to spill. She would spare her sisters the details of her ordeal – they didn't need to hear any of it. She took their hands and whispered, "You found me. I… I can't believe it."

Esma frowned. "What?"

"_We_ didn't find you. The Watch were on our doorstep this morning with the Lord Protector and _they_ told us they knew where you were," Lydia explained.

Waverly, settled against the plush seat of the carriage, turned her face to Corvo. She wanted to scream at him, to spit venom and curse at him for delivering her to Brisby, for being the catalyst for her unbearable ordeal, but she couldn't.

He reached into his coat and withdrew a crumpled note, folded in half. He held it out to her. "It was his dying wish that I rescue you, Lady Boyle," he said simply, without inflection or emotion. "I honoured that wish." Then, he turned on his heel and left.

_Dying wish_ echoed in her ears. She carefully unfolded the note.

The first thing she noticed were the flecks of dried blood splattered across the page. Her stomach turned.

She read the jagged words, carved roughly – _desperately _– into the paper: _Waverly Boyle is alive. Kept inside Timothy Brisby's country home. Save her. _

She read the flourished signature: _Lord Treavor Pendleton_.

There was a sudden, unfamiliar ache in her heart. She bowed her head, crushed the note to her lips, and wept.


End file.
